He wore upon his mail Twelve little golden wheels; Anon in eddies the wild wind blew, And round and round the wheels they flew. He wore before his breast A lance that was poised in rest; He wore upon his helm A wreath of ruddy gold; And that gave him the Maidens Three, Sir Oluf questioned the Knight eftsoon If he were come from heaven down; "Art thou Christ of Heaven," quoth he, "So will I yield me unto thee." "I am not Christ the Great, Thou shalt not yield thee yet; I am an Unknown Knight, Three modest Maidens have me bedight." "Art thou a Knight elected, And have three Maidens thee bedight; The first tilt they together rode They put their steeds to the test; Now lie the lords upon the plain, And their blood runs unto death; Now sit the Maidens in the high tower, Poems on Slavery. 1842. [The following Poems, with one exception, were written at sea, in the latter part of October. I had not then heard of Dr. Channing's death. Since that event the poem addressed to him is no longer appropriate. I have decided, however, to let it remain as it was written, a feeble testimony of my admiration for a great and good man.] TO WILLIAM E. CHANNING. THE pages of thy book I read, My heart, responding, ever said, "Servant of God! well done!" Well done! Thy words are great and bold; Like Luther's, in the days of old, Go on, until this land revokes The old and chartered Lie, The feudal curse, whose whips and yokes Insult humanity. A voice is ever at thy side Speaking in tones of might, Like the prophetic voice, that cried, Write! and tell out this bloody tale; This Day of Wrath, this Endless Wail, THE SLAVE'S DREAM. BESIDE the ungathered rice he lay, His breast was bare, his matted hair Again, in the mist and shadow of sleep, Wide through the landscape of his dreams Beneath the palm-trees on the plain He saw once more his dark-eyed queen They clasped his neck, they kissed his checks, A tear burst from the sleeper's lids And fell into the sand. And then at furious speed he rode His bridle-reins were golden chains, At each leap he could feel his scabbard of steel Before him, like a blood-red flag, The bright flamingoes flew ; From morn till night he followed their flight, O'er plains where the tamarind grew, Till he saw the roofs of Caffre huts, And the ocean rose to view. At night he heard the lion roar, And the river-horse, as he crushed the reeds And it passed, like a glorious roll of drums, The forests, with their myriad tongues, And the Blast of the Desert cried aloud, That he started in his sleep and smiled He did not feel the driver's whip, Nor the burning heat of day; For death had illumined the Land of Sleep, And his lifeless body lay A worn-out fetter, that the soul Had broken and thrown away! THE GOOD PART, THAT SHALL NOT BE TAKEN AWAY. SHE dwells by Great Kenhawa's side, And all her hope and all her pride Her soul, like the transparent air She reads to them at eventide And oft the blessed time foretells And following her beloved Lord, She makes her life one sweet record For she was rich, and gave up all To break the iron bands Of those who waited in her hall, Long since beyond the Southern sea Now earns her daily bread. It is their prayers, which never cease, THE SLAVE IN THE DISMAL SWAMP. IN dark fens of the Dismal Swamp He saw the fire of the midnight camp, Where will-o'-the-wisps and glow-worms shine, Where waving mosses shroud the pine, Where hardly a human foot could pass, On the quaking turf of the green morass A poor old slave, infirm and lame; On his forehead he bore the brand of shame, All things above were bright and fair, On him alone was the doom of pain, Within Earth's wide domains Are markets for men's lives; Their wrists are cramped with gyves. |